


ruin

by queervengers (orphan_account)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: (and maybe some others), (it's complicated), (there will be lots of hook/peter sex), Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Police, Canonical Character Death, Criminal Masterminds, FBI, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Manipulation, No Underage Sex, Prostitution, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, manipulative twinky peter, undercover cop, very loose knowledge of police stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein police officer Killian Jones meets a boy named Peter, and things get wildly out of hand.</p><p> </p><p>Featuring manipulative criminal Peter, disillusioned cop Hook, and more than anyone bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ruin

**Author's Note:**

> There is an appalling lack of Captain Pan fic. I'm here to try and help with that.

Killian stretches his legs and sighs, flipping through the file on his desk. The clock reads 8:15, but he’s on duty until midnight, at which point he’ll get to go back to his empty apartment and drink until it knocks him out.

Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore, not since his brother died.

He tosses the file across his desk and groans. Storybrooke Vice hasn’t found anything new about the bust that got Liam killed – it’s just the same few pieces of information, worded differently every time; it’s not real progress. It never is. There’s never anything tangible, just whispers passed along the street about shadows and poison, whispers so vague and cryptic that they feel more like fairy tales than real information. And Killian’s not in this job to chase stories and shadows. He signed up to do something _real_ , and Liam’s death only intensified that desire.

He stands and grabs his jacket, shrugging it on as he heads for the door.

“Going downtown?” His partner, Neal, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, files scattered around him.

“Yeah,” Killian says.

Downtown Storybrooke isn’t the classiest place in town, not once you get onto the side streets. Killian usually avoids this part of the job – Neal is better with the women and boys who wander the streets down there. But when Killian needs something solid to accomplish, getting anyone off the street for even one night is _something_.

It’s a Tuesday, and it’s not late, so not much of the normal crowd is around when Killian turns onto the street known best for its underage boys, but there are still a few. Killian isn’t in a squad car, at least, so they don’t scatter like they would otherwise. He’s not looking for a chase – it’s thirty degrees out, and he’s not planning on properly arresting anyone, just helping out and seeing if he can find anything out about whoever’s running this particular crew.

Killian slows down his car, scoping out the group. They’re standing closer together than usual, in one clump, and he absently wonders if that’s a warmth thing, a way to make up for the sad excuses for clothing most of them have on. The cold has stripped away most of the fake confidence they usually project, leaving them to look like just a group of lost little boys. The vice squad has tried shutting down this street’s operations, but it always pops back up, and they’ve given up on trying to do more than improve conditions for the workers.

A small boy detaches from the group and approaches Killian’s car.

“How much?” Killian asks after rolling down the window. The kid can’t be more than sixteen, and he’s _skinny_. Something about his face is vaguely familiar, so Killian assumes he’s not new. That assumption is backed by the kid’s swagger and smirk, like he knows what he’s doing.

“What are you looking for?” He’s got an accent – English, southern.

“The night, anything I want.”

“Six hundred for four hours.”

Killian raises an eyebrow. “That much?” He never hears numbers that high around here.

“I’m the best,” the kid boasts. “You don’t find asses like mine every day.”

Killian unlocks the door. “Get in.”

The boy slides in, relaxing once he gets into the heated interior. “The guys have your license plate, just so you know. You kill me, cops get involved. No permanent scarring, no scat, no asphyxiation. We clear?”

“Awfully demanding, love.”

“Half now, half after.”

Storybrooke Vice has guidelines for these situations, but Killian can’t bring himself to follow them right now. Instead, he pulls out his wallet and counts out $300 – most of what’s in there – and hands it to the kid. “Killian,” he says.

“Call me Peter.”

Just then, the kid’s stomach growls, loudly. “When was the last time you ate?” Killian asks.

“This morning. It’s nothing. There’s a motel I’d recommend around the corner up here.”

“Peter, I’m feeding you first.” He thinks through the local options that he can afford with what’s left in his wallet. “Taco Bell, Subway, or home-cooked food?”

Peter raises a sculpted eyebrow. “You’re offering to _cook_ for me?”

“My cooking repertoire only covers pasta, omelettes, and steak, but I am.”

Peter takes a moment to consider, then says softly, “That sounds nice.”

Killian turns onto the street that will take them back up toward his apartment. “Hampshire?” he guesses after a moment.

“Hmm?” Peter is flipping through the stations on Killian’s radio, and Killian wonders why he already seems so comfortable.

“Your accent.”

Peter smirks, like he’s laughing at some private joke. “Neverland.”

Killian shoots him a look. “That’s cute.”

“Peter Pan, get it?”

Killian laughs despite himself. “That’s a _terrible_ fake name, mate.”

“What, you don’t want to be my Captain Hook?”

Killian holds up his left hand and wiggles his full set of fingers. “Don’t think I meet the requirements.”

“We’ll just have to use our imagination, then, won’t we.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Killian says, finally pulling into his driveway.

“Whatever you say, Captain.”

Killian leads him up the stairs to his third floor apartment, suddenly aware that it’s a bit of a mess. He tosses an empty bottle of rum into the recycling bin when he walks in, but it doesn’t help much.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, pointing toward the bathroom. “Towels are under the sink, use whatever you need. What do you want to eat?” He opens the fridge, which is nearly empty. “I have…lettuce. And chicken.” He finds pasta in a cabinet, and Peter tells him that’s good enough before heading toward the bathroom.

Killian turns on the stove, then hastily begins throwing trash away and reshelving books. While he does that, he pulls out his phone and calls Neal. It goes to voicemail, a surefire sign his partner’s fallen asleep on the job again.

“Listen, mate, I’m helping someone out. Looks like I won’t be back tonight. See you Thursday.”

He hangs up, folds a blanket, and then gets back to cooking.

“Do you have any clothes for me to borrow, or is that unnecessary since you’ll be taking them all off anyway?” Killian jumps at the sound of Peter’s voice, then turns to see the boy standing behind him, towel dangerously low on his hips. Killian’s surprised at how much lean muscle the boy has – he’s not skinny, as it had seemed, just slender, all defined hipbones and subtle abs. Cleanliness is a good look on him – he looks older out of the ratty clothes he’d had on before, his hair wet and dangling in his face.

Killian realises he’s staring and feels disgusted with himself for ogling a kid who _might_ be seventeen, at the absolute oldest, and then remembers that the boy is still under the impression that he’s being paid for sex. He sighs and looks away. “Down the hall, first door on the left. Any clothes in the dresser are fair game.” Peter nods, and Killian makes a point of _not_ watching his ass as he walks away.

By the time Peter gets back, wearing sweatpants and a Storybrooke Police t-shirt, Killian’s serving his makeshift pasta dish into two bowls.

Peter sits on one of the stools. “So, Hook, you’re a cop. You going to arrest me?” There’s a slight twinkle in his eye, and Killian realises he’s teasing.

“Don’t call me that, mate. I’m just going to feed you and give you a place to stay for the night.” He sits next to Peter, who bumps their shoulders together with a smirk.

“So you’re telling me I _don’t_ get a piece of that hot pirate ass? Why, Killian, I’m offended.”

Killian glares at him. “I’m still paying you. You’ll live.”

“This isn’t half bad, you know,” Peter announces after a bite of the dish. There’s silence for a moment. “So if you _don’t_ want sex from me, what _do_ you want?”

“Mind telling me who’s got you on the streets on a Tuesday night?”

“How do you know I’m not my own boss, _mate_?” Killian wonders if Peter ever _stops_ smirking. “I’m living the American dream!”

“Eat your pasta, love.”

“Oh, you’re calling me _love_ now? Are you _sure_ you don’t want some of this?”

Killian points his fork at the kid. “ _Eat_ ,” he orders. Peter obliges.

Over the course of dinner, Killian tries to get information out of Peter, who just dodges all of his questions. By the time they’re doing dishes together, Killian knows nothing of value – Peter’s favourite colour is green, his favourite TV show is Hannibal, and he’s somewhere around sixteen, with a sharp sense of humour and a complete inability to call Killian by his actual name – he’s apparently Hook for good. Killian doesn’t know Peter’s real name, or the names of any of the boys he works with, or anything new about the people behind the scenes of Storybrooke’s criminal underground. The conversation is _useless_.

But he enjoys it anyway. He hasn’t had anyone else in his apartment in months.

He puts away the last of the silverware. “If you’d like to go to bed now – ”

“It’s half nine, Hook, I’m not a _child_.” Killian begs to differ, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Peter’s thrown himself onto the couch. “Let’s watch TV.”

Killian shakes his head in disbelief, but somehow ends up next to Peter on the couch, with some brainless procedural cop show playing. He finds himself pointing out all the ways they break protocol and the law itself, and Peter laughs along and provides clever commentary of his own, right up until he falls asleep, his head eventually ending up on Killian’s lap.

Killian sighs and lets his hands run through Peter’s soft, clean hair. He watches the TV intently, instead of staring at the boy sleeping on his lap, until he himself is too exhausted to stay up any longer. He’s hesitant to wake Peter, though – the boy looks like he needs the rest. So he moves carefully, ready to leave Peter on the couch for the night until he realises that he _does_ have a second bedroom, even if it’s gone unoccupied for months.

So he gently lifts Peter, trying not to wake the boy, who weighs almost nothing. Peter stirs, just slightly, but Killian tells him to just go back to sleep, then carries him into Liam’s old room and gets him under the blankets before heading to his own room to go to sleep.

Sleep comes easily.

It’s the first time he’s fallen asleep without alcohol since his brother died.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah lmao this is abandoned


End file.
